


Home Fires Burning

by Eisenschrott



Category: Star Wars Original Trilogy
Genre: Grief/Mourning, Jealousy, Lazy Sex, M/M, Winter
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-09
Updated: 2018-01-09
Packaged: 2019-03-02 13:44:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 2,876
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13319397
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Eisenschrott/pseuds/Eisenschrott
Summary: Snapshot ficlets in which Veers and Piett go on home leave on Denon.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> These ficlets were first created as responses to a prompts meme. They weren't betaed, so the form is a bit rough here and there.
> 
> Title from the WWI classic song _Keep the home fires burning_.

Veers wiped a fist-thick layer of snow off the bench and smirked up at Piett, steam blowing out of his mouth. “Here you go, old boy. Take a seat.”

“ _Boy_. Look who’s talking.” Piett’s teeth never stopped chattering as he spoke. He sat down on the bench, winced as he felt chilly humidity on his arse and back through the heavy military coat, hunched his shoulders and sank his face deeper into the bantha wool scarf. “My arsehole’s freezing. Tonight you can forget about—”

“It’s fine, it’s fine. I’ll suck you off instead.”

Piett’s heart raced. Not even the few hundred meters uphill he’d just plodded through the snow could make it race so; only fear could. He looked around. No cameras, no people, just trees and snow and, further away, sleek Denoni rooftops fading into a cloudy, pale distance.

“Oh, relax,” Veers said. “We’re free to talk, for once.”

“We’re free to talk  _dirty_  every night cycle, in my quarters.”

“Not the same, sailor.”

“Not the same, indeed, because my quarters have heating.” His fingers numb despite the gloves, Piett groped into his coat pocket for the cigs.

Veers wandered to the side of the path, gazing at the cityscape and the bay. The sea had the same color as a freshly painted Star Destroyer. “I used to come play here when I was a child. Me and a bunch of other younglings. I haven’t seen any of them since I entered the academy.”

Piett waited, trembling, for some other corny childhood recollection, but Veers fell silent, his back to Piett, eyes to the grey sea.

“Boonta have mercy, Max,” he pulled Veers away from whatever sad thought he was sinking into, “you came to play here in  _this_ season?”

“You bet.”

“Play… how? Did the youngling who got frostbitten the fastest win a Baron Biscuit meal pack?”

Veers crouched, scooped up a fat fistful of snow and stood back up, a mischievous smile curling his lips and half-shutting his eyes. Again, he didn’t say anything. His hands patted the snow into a perfect sphere.

“Oh, no. Max, no. Don’t you dare throwing that snowball, General, that’s an order—” He threw himself down, dodging the projectile just in time. “Damn it, you tosspot—!” A second barrage of soft, deadly cold snow hit him square in the face. As he swatted hit off his face and rubbed his skin as dry as possible with his scarf, he heard Veers boom with laughter.

“This is war.” He clawed into the snow at his feet and gathered a lump of his own.

No cameras, no people, no respectable appearances to keep up… They were free to play here, after all.


	2. Chapter 2

Veers took a deep breath; Piett heard it clearly over the hiss of the synthwood door sliding open.

The apartment was dark, the outside light falling on a segment of wooden tile floor and a mat with a tookas motif and the writing  _Home sweet home_. Veers went inside first, his boots tracking molten snow on the mat.

Piett wasn’t in the habit of breaking into someone else’s dark house unless he had a blaster and a few stormtroopers under his command, and that someone had a criminal record. So he waited on the threshold until a window whirred open, raining daylight from the other end of the living room.

“Don’t just stand there, Firmus!” Veers called him from the window. He was taking off his coat. “Come in before you get even colder than you are.”

Piett smiled, and avoided thinking about why that smile came from a feeling of relief. “It’s your fault if I’m cold in the first place, you berk.” If he just pretended the relief was at being in a warm place, it would be fine. “Shall I leave my boots at the entrance?”

“Sure, make yourself comfortable.”

The door closed. Piett wriggled his cold-numb feet out of his boots. A pair of slippers too small for Veers’ feet lay beside the mat, and Piett put them on; they fitted him just right.

He sauntered into the living room, unwrapping the scarf off his neck and peeling the coat off his shoulders as he went. He dropped them both on the couch atop of Veers’, plus the gloves and cap. Immediately he shivered and hugged himself in the cold air, stale with a smell of wood, fruity deodorant, long-closed windows.

“I’ve turned up the heating,” Veers said as he disappeared into a dark corridor. “Give it a few minutes. The kettle should work, you can make yourself some tea.”

“Only if we get to play some dejarik later, General.” Piett waited, but the jest about their public excuse for nighttime rendezvous in the admiral’s quarters got no response.

Minutes passed. The floor grew warmer, Piett slipped a foot out of a slipper to feel it. Rays of light fell into the corridor from one room, then another. Piett could see Veers stand in front of the only closed door left. He put the slipper back on and slunk up to Veers, who gave him a sideways look and stared at the closed door again.

“The… the tea is in one of the cabinets,” Veers said. “Likewise the teacups.”

“If you don’t want to go in, I’ll do it.”

Veers said nothing.

Piett pressed the lock and the door slid open. Enough light filtered that he could get to the window without bumping into the bed or the dresser. He half-shut his eyes against the flooding light and the dust particles that whirled in the sunrays.

Veers hadn’t moved yet. His stare had fixed itself on the bed.

“Those blankets seem a bit thin for this weather,” Piett said, “don’t you agree?”

“You mean to sleep here?”

“Well, that’s what bedrooms are for.”

“As if you are only thinking of sleeping.”

Piett frowned. “Max, if my presence here is a problem, I will just book a hotel room.”

Veers blinked and flinched. It was like he’d noticed now that Piett was in the bedroom. “No! That’s not what I…” He sidled towards the bed, ran a hand on the coverlet and, centimeter by centimeter, lowered himself to sit on the mattress. After several seconds he said, “You’re wearing her slippers.”

Unexpected, ludicrous guilt shot a pang at the back of Piett’s mind. He ignored it. “Yours are too big. And you better not judge me; you didn’t even take your filthy boots off.”

Veers cast down his gaze. His hands, resting on his thighs, contracted into fists.

Piett heaved a sigh. “I’m using that HoloNet terminal in the living room for a moment, if you don’t mind. I will look up a hotel—”

“Please, don’t leave.”

“Max…” Piett glanced at the nightstand. There was a holopic in a frame. Veers, his wife, the baby. “I am not sleeping on the couch. And neither you are.”

“There is my son’s bedroom… Oh, blast this shit.” Veers tore his gloves off and rubbed his eyes. “We are staying here, and sleeping here. I’m sorry. I… Go make that tea, Firmus, won’t you? I need a minute. To think.”

“Tea for two, dear.” On his way towards the door, Piett halted in front of Veers and bent to kiss his cheek. By the time he reached the kitchen, his willpower was busy taming an urge to grab the kettle and the porcelain teacups, so beautiful that only Veers’ wife could have bought them, and hurl them all to the floor.


	3. Chapter 3

Veers couldn’t fall asleep. They had ordered wine with the dinner, but ever since Piett had introduced him to Navy quaffs his tolerance to alcohol had increased; a half bottle of Corellian red stood no chance of knocking him down. He thought there were sleeping pills in the bathroom, but when he’d inspected the meds cabinet (the door was closed, the water running in the sink to ensure Piett would just think he was brushing his teeth) he’d found none. No meds aside from an anti-acne cream for Human skins, six standard years past sell-by date. Zev’s.

Piett had curled up in his arms, only the top of his head peeking out of the blanket, and soon started snoring. Neither had groped for the other’s skin under the nightclothes.

The moon shone in the window pane. Veers watched its light blink in and out as the wind pushed the clouds around, and snowflakes drifted into the moonlight.

If the Three Goddesses were angry—his blasphemous thoughts whirled along with the snow—this would have been a storm. The wind would have ripped the ceiling off, the snow would have coalesced into the slaying, vengeful stormwolf. It used to terrify Zev so much Eliana had stopped telling him the scary bits of bedtime folktales altogether.

Instead, it was just a cold wintry night. Veers had let his new love sleep in their bed, on Eliana’s side of the mattress. She was still dead. Piett fitted perfectly into the dip her body had dug into the mattress.

At first, he didn’t notice the noise change in Piett’s breathing. The shrimp had shifted, underneath the blanket, so that his knee poked at Veers’ lower belly. His snoring sounded more and more like a moan.

Having a nightmare, no doubt. Piett sometimes did. Slowly, his elbow resting on Piett’s waist, Veers stroked his back. Then he slipped his face under the blanket, the other man’s breath blowing softly on his skin. “Firmus?”

Piett exhaled with an  _ahh_  that didn’t sound all that nightmarish. Next thing Veers knew, lips were pressed to his chin, and a moment later to his neck.

“Damn,” Piett rumbled at his ear, “was that all a dream?”

“ _What_  was all a dream?”

A chuckle. “I’m not sure you’re ready to know, luv.”

“I gather it was a sweet dream?”

Piett pulled his arm down, took his hand, and slid it downwards.  _Oh_. So it wasn’t Piett’s knee. The temperature under the blanket increased a few degrees.

“I stand corrected,” Veers said. “A  _saucy_  dream.” He caressed Piett’s erection through the fabric. Piett responded with a sound between a mewl and a laugh, and rolled his hips to rub himself on Veers’ hand.

To offer comfort to his own budding hard-on, Veers stretched out a leg between Piett’s, who spread his thighs open and lay on his back. Veers crept on top of him, still fondling Piett’s holstered blaster gun with one hand, the other finding and cupping his warm cheek. Veers dived in for a deep kiss.

Piett stroked circles on his back, tugging his shirt up.

Veers didn’t so much break the kiss as draw his tongue out of Piett’s mouth, trailed it down his jaw and to his earlobe. “Was it me in the dream?”

“Hmm, maybe.”

“Or who else?”

“ _And_  who else, you mean.”

“Firmus, you’re a filthy thing.”

“Maybe.”

Veers pumped downwards hard on Piett’s shaft, reached for the trousers waistband and slipped his hand in there till he was touching and squeezing onto hot flesh.

Piett gasped. “Wait a minute— _ahh_ , you’re jealous?”

“Maybe.”

No reply came but louder, longer moans. Veers’ thumb found the tip of Piett’s cock, teased wetness out of the slit. His own length was starting to feel uncomfortable in his pants and pajama trousers.

“Was it her, Firmus?”

“W-what?”

“In your dreams, you slimy…” Veers let the rest of the sentence go off in a purr, as Piett’s nails raked down the bare skin of his back.

Piett reached all the way down to his lower back, a fingertip poked into the crack of his arse. “She was the one fucking me,” Piett whispered.

It was Veers’ turn to moan. A white-hot spark crept down his spine and kindled the fire that was building between his legs.

Piett went still. “Have you heard that?”

“Stars, Firmus, it… it was my fantasy too—”

“Ssh!”

Over the blood drumbeat in his ears, Veers heard  _that_ , too. Footfalls. Inside the house. He turned to look at the open bedroom door; light seeped into the corridor from the living room. He himself had switched that light off before heading to bed.

The stormwolf, the vengeful slayer, trod into the house, sniffed into the air for prey, and saw the military coats they’d dumped on the couch. “Dad! Are you on home leave, too?” Zev growled, as harsh as a pissed off Navy lieutenant.


	4. Chapter 4

From a certain point of view, Veers’ brat took things in stride. He prowled around the living room and the kitchen, glaring around as if checking the furniture for spunk stains, and listened in hatred-loaded silence to his father’s attempts at rationalization. His pimply face was set in the exact same Veers frown that had graced army holoposters since Maximilian Veers had started gracing the Empire with victories. In the kitchen, he grabbed a teacup and smashed it to the floor. While Veers gaped in shock, the brat stormed out of the house.

After a standard minute or two, the shock wore down. Veers sagged to sit on the nearest chair around the table.

Piett, without a word, looked around for a broom and, finding none, started picking up the bigger ceramic splinters bare-handed.

“Don’t,” Veers said flatly. “You’ll cut your hands.”

“And you’ll cut your feet. You didn’t even put your slippers on.” Piett avoided looking at him—he better keep his eyes on the sharp shards, anyway—and put the first handful of teacup fragments on the countertop. “Perhaps it can be glued back together. It would be a waste to throw it. They’re nice teacups.”

“Naboo-made. My wife bought them at a charity market at Zev’s pre-school.”

“A what?” Piett bent down to collect the smaller shards. His knees had not liked the cold weather all day long, and they were not liking all this motion now.

“A market where they sold knick-knacks and the proceedings went to… I don’t remember what, a fund for younglings orphaned during the Clone Wars, something like that.”

“Ah, I see. In my experience, markets are no place for charity.” Hells, on the Rikuba City marketplace the poorer vendors would sell vials of their own blood and grilled chops of their flesh, just to pay off their begging license to the underlings of Niobe Kryze or Verrua the Hutt. But it wasn’t an anecdote for Coreworlders. Another handful of teacup splinters joined the first on the countertop. “Do you have glue?”

Veers let out a deep, long sigh, almost a weeping sound. A brush of Denoni winter chill crept down Piett’s spine.

“We couldn’t have hidden forever.” Elbows planted on the table, Veers massaged his temples. “But him—finding out like this, and here of all places…”

 _You insisted that I spend the night here, in your wife’s bed; that will teach you_. Piett bit his sharper-than-shards tongue into silence.

“I doubt he’s going to tell anyone,” Veers said, quiet, trying to sound hopeful.

“By  _anyone_  you mean the ISB, don’t you?”

“Do you think he hates me that much?”

“How would I know? He’s not  _my_  son.”

“If the thought police come for us, tell them it was all my fault. Tell them I got you drunk and took advantage—”

“Hutt’s bollocks!” Piett stepped over next to Veers. An unseen shard stung at his foot through the slipper. He lay an arm over Veers’ broad shoulders, touched Veers’ forehead with his. “If they come for us, I will tell Lord Vader. And if, in the worst case scenario, we are forced to leave the armed forces,” it was not the worst case scenario, but Piett quashed the doubt from his mind and his voice, “then so be it. We will retire. We will live here.”

Veers said, “And get married.” A curt laugh. “Don’t be so silly, you of all people.”

“I’m dead serious.” It scared Piett to think that, maybe, he was. Especially the  _dead_  part.

“Firmus, Firmus… You would hate me for making you do that.” Veers pressed a hand on Piett’s over his shoulder. “Giving up your career, settling down on a planet where it snows and where the food isn’t spicy.”

He had a point. More than one point. “I  _wish_  I could hate you, luv.”

At the noise of the front door sliding open, they both snapped up. Veers ran to the living room first, Piett kicked away the shard stuck in his slipper and followed the infantry vanguard.

Zevulon Veers stood in the vestibule, shivering and hugging his torso, snow melting into water on his shoulders. He was wearing his uniform and no coat; his cap was gone and his hair windswept. “It’s cold,” he growled. His eyes flitted between his father and Piett. There was ice on his eyebrows and on his moustache.

Veers cleared his throat, but Piett put a steeling hand on his arm and he fell silent, waiting.

After a few teeth-chattering seconds, Zev said, “I don’t have anywhere else to go. Dad, can I stay here for the night?”

Piett kept his face impassible; big grins and hurrahs in the moment of victory were for Rebel officers, or at the very best for hotshot coffin jockeys. A smirk, however, did tug at the corners of his mouth.


End file.
